


A Long Time Coming

by pitypartyof1



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Chicago Blackhawks, Hockey, M/M, Misunderstandings, My First Fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4188669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitypartyof1/pseuds/pitypartyof1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of scenes leading up to the boys getting themselves together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Time Coming

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting, I hope you enjoy.  
> Unbetaed. All mistakes are mine.  
> I apologize if anything is off or not as it should be, I started writing and this is what came out.  
> I'm very friendly, and love reviews and talking with new people. Please let me know your thoughts.

                  Patrick groans. His shoulder and side are aching from a solid hit to the boards, and they’re going to bruise nicely. Sleeping forever sounds like a good life plan right now. Jonny seems to have other ideas though, showing up and knocking on Patrick’s door until he realizes it won’t stop unless he answers. So, that’s why he’s dragging himself over to his closet while Jonny watches from the edge of the bed. If he’s being forced to go out, he’s not going to do it in his stupidly uncomfortable game day suit. He knows it doesn’t look that great on him, anyway. The gray washes out his skin tone, according to Erica. Whatever, so he doesn’t have Jonny’s yearlong tan, sorry.

                  “Why don’t you go on ahead, and I’ll meet you guys at the bar?” Patrick asks hopefully. If he can get Jonny out of his house, then he could possibly take so long that the guys give up on him and leave him alone. Alternatively, if he manages to get him out of the house, Pat can also lock all the doors and windows and it won’t matter if they give up on him or not.

                  Jonny smiles at him, shark-like. He knows Patrick’s game. “I’ll just wait,” he says smoothly, “we can go down together.”

                  “That’s what she said,” Patrick grouses half-heartedly. He’s putting very minimal effort into hiding his disappointment, and Jonny doesn’t seem to care. In fact, if Pat didn’t know better, he’d say Jonny finds the whole thing terribly funny. On second thought, Pat realizes, it’s probably true. Jonny usually does take joy in making Patrick’s life harder. He grumbles in Jonny’s general direction (Jonny just smirks), and shucks his shirt off, trading it for a faded Henley. The material is soft under his fingers, and Pat wants to snuggle into it and sleep, damn it.

                  Instead, he continues his disgruntled noises, and Jonny just laughs. “I never thought I’d be the one dragging you out. It’s a celebration, Peeksy, try a smile.”

                  “I’ll celebrate in bed —”

                  Jonny quirks an eyebrow at him and Pat gives his best unimpressed look in return. Tonight is not the night.

                  “—with sleep, idiot,” he finishes around a yawn. “I couldn’t get it up even if I wanted to right now.” Even for you, he thinks. He’s really not lying either. At this point, he honestly can’t imagine it. He barely has the energy to promote breathing and blinking.

                  If Jonny’s going to drag him out, he’s going to suffer for it. Pat makes a mental note to be sure he passes out on top of Jonny at the bar just so he’ll have to heave Patrick’s heavy ass around if he wants to move at all. Jonny will probably not be amused, which really only makes it better for Patrick. “Also,” he says, brain slow with exhaustion, “stop calling me Peeksy, I’m a goddamn adult.”

                  “You think so.” Jonny’s eyes are sparkling, and it’s obvious he’s going to keep calling him Peeksy forever now. It’s not really a new development, because he was probably going to do that anyway. However, once again, tonight is not the night. At least Pat’s registered his complaints about once every month since the nickname’s introduction. None of these fuckers can say they didn’t know when he finally goes on a rampage and kills them all. Sharpy and Jonny will die separately, and slowly.

                  “Know so,” is all he says.

                  A snort is Jonny’s only response, and he’s clearly not taking Patrick seriously. He thinks he should maybe be defending his own honor or whatever, but he really can’t be assed. Also, Jonny usually does that for him, he’s kind of come to expect it. When Pat finally snaps out of his own head, he realizes they’ve been sitting in silence. He’s been staring blankly at Jonny, who’s staring right back. Holding his arms out, he spins in a slow circle and asks Jonny “good enough?”

                  Jonny nods dumbly, breaking his gaze and scuffing a toe on the floor.

                  “Let’s go then.” Pat grabs his coat and moves to pass Jonny, still sitting on the bed, headed for the door. He brushes Jonny’s warm knee on his way. God, Pat wishes he could curl up with those knees tucked in behind his, those arms tucking him close to a brad chest. The word that enters his mind when he thinks of Jonny is a simple one: Safe. It’s simple to think, but the feelings it inspires are entirely too complicated. He is far too tired, and really just doesn’t have time for this shit to rear its ugly head right now.

                  Jonny moves then, rises and follows Pat, quiet for the first real time since he’s come to retrieve him.

 

                  The next morning when Pat wakes, it’s much earlier than he’d like it to be. His bedroom blinds are open, and sunlight is invading his retinas. In a fit of stubbornness, he rolls onto his stomach, pulls the pillow over his head, and attempts to coax his body back to sleep. He’d been having a good dream. To his immense frustration, it does not work. Today, however, is at least a free day. He doesn’t have to actually leave his home if he doesn’t want to, barring natural disasters. Pat sends up a silent thank you for small mercies.

                  Several minutes later when he finally convinces himself to really leave the bed, he takes stock and notices he’s in his underwear, not his normal sweats. Shrugging, Pat picks a pair off the floor, sniffs them, and proceeds to pull them on, hoping they’re mostly clean. After making a stop in the bathroom, he heads toward the kitchen. He nearly makes it, too, before realizing there’s a half naked teammate cashed out on his sofa.

                  He’s almost ashamed that he knows it’s Jonny just from the curve of his shoulders and the slope of his back. And his butt. Like he said, he’s almost ashamed. It’s the butt of Patrick’s dreams, if he’s being honest. The first time he saw it, he was jealous. Now he just wants to get all over that thing, preferably multiple times on a regular basis.

                  Embarrassingly, he stares for so long that when Jonny begins to make rustling movements that signal his attempts to wake up, it makes Patrick jump. Scurrying into the kitchen at last, he props himself on the counter and attempts to control his breathing. It almost works, but when Jonny wanders over after a bit and takes a seat at the island, it all goes to hell. He looks so sleep mussed and adorable, and Pat just wants. Instead, he immediately starts fussing with the coffeemaker. Anything to keep his hands busy so they don’t wind up running themselves through Jonny’s awful morning hair or smoothing the pillow creases out of his cheek. Obviously, he’d stolen the pillow from Pat’s bed, and Pat wonders if it will smell like him now. Morning Jonny makes him feel so helpless, even after all the years of being exposed to it.

                  Jonny inhales happily as the scent of brewing coffee fills the room. Patrick suspects that Jonny drinks more coffee than he’ll admit to. “Eggs?” he asks instead, still feeling flustered. Jonny blinks owlishly at him, and nods his head slowly with a small smile tugging up the left side of his mouth. Apparently he’s not awake enough for speech just yet, and Patrick just dies.

                  The kitchen fills with clinking and crashing as Pat begins to pull out bowls, utensils, ingredients and a pan. He keeps his gaze steadily on the eggs he’s cracking, trying valiantly to keep himself from the fond look he wants to toss in Jonny’s direction. On the list of things Patrick is grateful for, Jonny’s apparent obtuseness is pretty high up there. Pat knows he’s not always as subtle as he should be for someone harboring a giant, secret love for his best friend. He jumps for the second time that morning when the cupboard behind him slams. He hadn’t even heard Jonny, who is obviously pouring himself coffee, come into the kitchen.

                  “Milk,” Jonny whines pathetically behind him. Pat hands it to him, and has to laugh when he see the sleepy pout on his face. It shouldn’t be cute, but Pat’s resigned himself to the fact that literally everything is cute when it’s Jonny.

                  There’s a moment when Jonny tries to give him dead eyes, but yawns on accident and it just makes Pat laugh harder. “How have you even made it this far in life? That glare was just sad, man.”

                  The comment is met with complete non-amusement from Jonny. Pat gets the vibe that Jonny wants to smack him in the head. He must decide against it because he just turns and stalks grumpily back to his seat at the counter.

                  “Eggs are burning,” he grunts over his shoulder.

                  Pat’s chuckle dies in his throat, and a quick sniff confirms Jonny is right. Pat yelps and spins back toward the stove. The eggs are turning gross colors, and he quickly shoves the pan to a cold burner, turns the stove off and turns the overhead fan to high. Even with the ensuing roar, he can hear Jonny quietly snickering at him. When he turns, Jonny’s wearing a half smile that is quickly morphing to smug rather than sleepy. “We can always have oatmeal,” he suggests, taking pity on Patrick.

                  They have oatmeal. Once Pat’s gotten some coffee and Jonny’s stopped harassing him, that is. Pat’s life is so hard, honestly. How is he supposed to not love Jonny? Every time he thinks he’s hit the stopping point, Jonny does something completely dorky, or puts on a pair of sinful pants, and Pat falls even further. Sometimes it feels like he’s stepped over the side of a bottomless pit without a parachute. His stomach’s in his throat, and he’s never going to stop falling.

                  Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he realizes something. He doesn’t really remember, but he’s moderately certain he didn’t drink much last night. He’d been too tired to really do anything at all, let alone drink himself stupid.

                  “What happened last night?” he asks, oatmeal dripping off the spoon he’s got halfway to his mouth.

                  There’s a funny look on Jonny’s face. “Don’t you remember anything?” Confusion is evident in his voice.

                  “Not really, no.” Patrick tries to sound unconcerned, but he’s pretty sure he was not a success.

                  “Well,” Jonny starts, then pauses for a sip of coffee, “you must have been more exhausted than I realized. You had about two drinks and passed out on the table. I shoved your ass in a cab, drug you up here, and put you to bed.” He scrunches his nose a bit in thought. “I mean, obviously you were tired, but I don’t know why you wouldn’t remember the parts you were awake for.”

                  Shrugging his shoulders, Patrick takes another bite of oatmeal. “Guess I must have been beyond out of it.” Also, this explains the no pants thing. Jonny took his pants off. He is seriously put out that he missed that.

                  “Or you got dosed,” Jonny grins.

                  “Not funny, asshole.”

                  “Not funny,” Jonny agrees, but he’s still smiling and cheerfully dodges the oatmeal Pat lobs his way.

                  Oh god, Patrick is so gone for this loser.

 

                  “We’re going running.”

                  “You’re going running.”

                  “We are both going running. Together.”

                  “No.”

                  Patrick rolls over, pretends Jonny isn’t looming over his nap attempt. Naturally, being ignored doesn’t fly well with someone who insists on having control. Right now, Jonny is insisting. Squealing embarrassingly loudly, Patrick hits the floor and rolls. Looking up, he sees Jonny allowing the couch to settle back on the floor with a satisfied air.

                  “You did not just dump me off my own couch.”

                  Jonny shrugs, looking completely unrepentant. He’s already dressed and has been arguing with Patrick for ten whole minutes. “Well, you’re up. Now we can go run.” He moves past Patrick, down the hallway.

                  “I’m still not going!” Pat shouts from the floor at Jonny’s back as he retreats towards Patrick’s room. If anyone can out stubborn Jonny, it’s him. However, he doesn’t have more than a few seconds of peace before he feels something thump into his back. It’s honestly a little painful. Raising his head inquiringly, he squawks and quickly ducks as the second shoe comes pelting at his head.

                  Patrick is still sputtering and rolling on the ground, hopelessly tangled in his blankets, when Jonny saunters back into the room holding his running shorts and an old shirt. “Oh good,” he smiles, “you found your shoes! Get dressed,” he thrusts the clothing toward Patrick.

                  Pissed. Patrick is pissed.

                  Pulling himself free of the mess on the floor, he’s on his feet in an instant. “Are you kidding? You almost hit me in the fucking head with that!” he points furiously.

                  “You need to work on your reaction time then.” Jonny glares for a second, follows up with “or just get up next time.” He’s wearing that stupid, smug look again and Patrick steams.

                  He wants to hit Jonny in his dumb, handsome face. Instead, he plops back onto the floor and crosses both his arms and legs. He can be obstinate; he’s totally good at that. “I’m not going. You threw shoes at me, fuck you.”

                  Jonny’s eyes narrow. They really do look like lasers, but Pat’s immune. “Kaner, I will dress you, and drag you by your mullet. Don’t make me do it. You know I’ll do it.”

                  Patrick does know this. He decides on diversionary tactics. “You just want to get me naked,” he taunts. In an unconscious move, his tongue peeks out to wet his lower lip. Jonny’s eyes track the movement.

                  “Been there, seen that,” he huffs.

                  “And you’re coming back for more,” Patrick leers at him. He takes entirely too much enjoyment out of Jonny’s barely there blush. He might be tan, but Patrick can still spot the pink in his cheeks and the tops of his ears.

 

                  Two nights later, Patrick scores the winning goal and his feelings couldn’t be more opposite from the last game. Chelsea Dagger is thrumming through his veins, and he’s riding on the adrenaline high. He can’t keep the ridiculous smile off his face as he slams into Jonny on the ice. Jonny shouts in his ear, but he can’t hear a thing. He does catch it, though, when Jonny slaps his ass as they head off.

                  They’re all rowdy with the win in the locker room. He’s being extra touchy, too, knows he’s completely obvious, but can’t seem to stop. That pat from Jonny only fuels his fire. Self-preservation and self-control aren’t in his vocabulary at the moment. Draping himself over Jonny in an imitation of a hug that’s really more of a pec grope, Pat broadcasts another smile across the room. This is where he wants to be for the rest of his life.

                  “You want to get off? I’d like to shower.” There’s some half-hearted pushing on Jonny’s part, but Pat refuses to acknowledge it. “Kaner, off,” Jonny grumbles, shoving harder now.

                  Making a face at Sharpy, who’s clearly mocking him from across the room, he peels himself off Jonny’s magnificent back and shoulders. “Fine, leave me to celebrate on my own, but know I may never forgive you,” he sighs melodramatically.

                  “There’s an entire team for you to celebrate with,” Jonny replies, deadpan.

                  “Absolutely do not molest me,” Shawzy pipes almost immediately. Most of the room cracks up and a few shouts go up in agreement.

                  “Let’s keep our hands to ourselves, Peekaboo,” Sharpy admonishes. He looks positively delighted at the turn of the conversation.

                  Patrick pouts. This is absolutely not fair at all. He’s never molested anyone. It’s just… If Jonny said yes, Pat would be pretty okay with touching him and maybe groping, like a lot, all the time. Jonny could even grope back if he wanted, Pat’s down with that idea, too. Seriously, even if he did molest people, he wouldn’t pick any of these assholes. He says the last bit out loud.

                  “Please, you know you’d want this.” Sharpy flashes the smile he thinks makes him look like a movie star and strikes a pose.

                  “Ew.”

                  When Jonny reenters the room, he finds both Patricks mid-scuffle. He shares a look with Seabs and rolls his eyes.

                  “I saw that!” Patrick shouts before Sharpy manages to get him in a headlock and drags him back down. A couple of botched elbow jab attempts later, Patrick’s starting to have trouble breathing. He flaps his arms and chokes out an approximation of “uncle!” while Sharp snickers.

                  “What was that? I didn’t catch it,” Sharpy taunts.

                  Jonny chucks a towel at his head. “Let the kid go, we might need him someday.”

                  “You need me now,” Pat corrects, winded, as he stumbles away from Sharpy. “You know your day wouldn’t be complete without this,” he plasters on a mega-watt grin and gestures at himself.

                  “How would I ever survive?” Jonny responds flatly.

                  Patrick tosses him a wink and points back at him, “exactly.”

 

                  Jonny drives Patrick back to his place, invites him up for a beer to celebrate the win. Pat’s still pretty keyed up, but he’s content to relax and drink with Jonny. He sits closer than he might normally, thigh pressed to Jonny’s, occasionally bumps their shoulders together. As the night wears on and the adrenaline drains out of him, Pat’s left feeling exhausted again, and lays his head on Jon’s shoulder. There’s a fond smile playing around his mouth. Jonny snorts, but doesn’t try to shrug him off and Patrick’s not sure he’s going to last much longer without jumping him.

                  “That really was a nice goal,” Jonny comments, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV an hour or so later.

                  Pat grins down at his hands in his lap. “Thanks.”

                  “Yeah…” Jonny trails off awkwardly, seeming a bit unsure of himself. “Well, you can crash out here, or there’s the guest ro-!” he lets out a muffled ‘oomph’ noise as Patrick lands on him. Seemingly taking no notice of the fact that he’s knocked the air out of him, Pat kisses Jonny with full force. Jonny lets him for a minute before he kisses back, and it punches a noise out of Pat.

                  When Pat finally lets up, his cheeks are pink with embarrassment. “Hey,” he says stupidly.

                  “Hey,” Jonny says back, grinning with kiss swollen lips. “What was that for?”

                  Pat ducks his head, “I’ve been wanting to,” he admits with a shrug.

                  “I’ve been waiting,” Jonny nudges him and waits for Patrick to look up. “It took you long enough.”

                  Patrick wants to smile and rejoice, he really does, but there’s that one small detail where “you knew?” A sheepish look replaces Jonny’s grin. He backs away from Jonny as the realization settles in. “This whole time? You knew and you didn’t say anything? You didn’t do anything, Jonny! Of course it took me forever; I thought you might hate me!”

                  Jonny’s grimacing now, but he’s not trying to move back into Pat’s space. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds bad.”

                  “No fuck, shithead.”

                  “Well I wasn’t sure,” Jonny says shrugging. “When I asked Seabs, he said —”

                  “What?” Hysteria creeps into Patrick’s voice, “what?! Seabs fucking knows about this? Jesus, Jon, did you run straight to the team and take votes on what you should do about my big, gay crush on you?”

                  “No! No, of course I didn’t! I wouldn’t do that, Pat!” Now Jonny is scrambling to get to him, grasping Pat’s biceps like he’s tempted to shake sense into him. “Pat,” he whispers harshly, with an air of desperation, “you have to know I wouldn’t.” Jonny’s eyes are wide, brown and so, so earnest, begging Pat to believe him.

                  Objectively, Pat knows Jonny wasn’t really out to have a laugh at his expense. Jon would never, he knows this, but it doesn’t make him feel any less humiliated. He thought he’d been coping, thought he’d been doing a good job of hiding it. Meanwhile, Jonny had known, and for how long? Pat has no idea. But more than that, Jonny had gone and told Brent. Pat feels angry tears prick at his eyes just thinking about it. They had both known. Even if they weren’t, he feels like they must have been laughing at him. Or worse, what if they pitied him? Every time he thought he’d gone unnoticed, did they see? Were they feeling sorry for him? What if the others had figured it out, too?

                  Pat can feel the tears sliding down his cheeks now, and he swipes furiously at them, unwilling to let Jonny see this. “Why didn’t you say something? You could have said, and I’d have backed off. Why did you let me wander around like an idiot? You should have just said that you weren’t – that you didn’t want this.”

                  “Pat, Patrick,” Jonny pulls him in and he goes, doesn’t have to will to resist him. “Of course I want this. I’ve always wanted this, wanted you.”

                  “Then why didn’t you act like it?”

                  “I was scared, Peeks,” Jonny brushes a stray curl from Pat’s face. “I was scared I was seeing what I wanted to, that I might be imagining things. I didn’t know what to do. I was going crazy.” Taking a deep breath, Jonny runs a hand through his own hair. “I had to talk to someone. Seabs just… I knew he wouldn’t say anything, and I knew he’d tell me if I was off base or out of line.”

                  “What did Seabs say?” Patrick is calming a bit now, but because he’s a glutton for punishment, he has to know.

                  “He said it was possible, but the only way I’d know would be to ask.”

                  Pat can feel Jonny shaking against him now, not a lot, but enough. Strangely, it serves to center him a bit. “You should have asked me, Jon.”

                  “Couldn’t,” he mumbles, “what if I was wrong, Pat? What if you laughed in my face? What if I ruined everything?”

                  “You don’t think I was worried about all of that? Jesus, Jon.” Pat takes a second to breathe, try to steady his nerves. “Do you know how long we could’ve been doing this?” he asks, peering up into Jonny’s face.

                  Jonny chuckles a little hysterically, buries his face in Pat’s neck, and breathes in his scent. “Never going to stop now.” And, mimicking his words, his grip on Patrick’s waist tightens. “Never letting go,” he mumbles into Pat’s skin.

                  “Good,” Pat says, nudging Jon with his nose. “So, are you going to kiss me, or what?”

 

                  Hours later, once they’ve finished making out on Jonny’s couch, eaten some very late dinner, and made out some more, they cuddle up in Jonny’s bed. A smile curls over Pat’s face. Jonny’s arms are tucked around his waist, and his knees are pressing right up behind Pat’s too. It’s all Patrick’s been dreaming of for around three years now. He turns his face into the pillow and inhales. It’s a mix of Jonny’s shampoo, cedar and something distinctly manly. It’s wonderful, and Pat’s the happiest he’s ever been.

                  They’ve both been complete idiots. If they communicated at all, this wouldn’t have been so difficult. Everyone’s chirped them for years for being so strange about each other. Pat’s not too worried about Seabs’ reaction, he might let off one or two cracks, but he’ll probably leave them mostly alone.

                  Sharpy though? Patrick’s going to hate everything about him when Sharpy finds out. The image of his familiar, awful, mischievous look passes through Patrick’s mind’s eye. He’s going to kill the guy one of these days. Pat hasn’t even told him yet, and he’s already being unbearable about it. He decides to put it out of his mind for now, and nestles back into Jon’s side.

                  Since it’s possible now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of touching Jonny. His skin is just as soft as Patrick’s always thought it would be, and he wants to map that expanse with his mouth, too. He was delighted to find earlier that Jonny does not have tan lines. This news sent Patrick into daydreams of Jon tanning naked on his lake in Canada. “I love you,” he breathes into the silence.

                  “Love you, too, Peeks,” Jon exhales back sleepily.

                  It tickles Patrick’s neck, and he’s tempted to run his fingers over the spot, feels like the words must have left a mark there. A grin curves Jon’s lips and Patrick feels him press it right there, in that spot, like a promise.

 

                  Patrick, it turns out, is correct. A week after they tell the team, he arrives for morning skate to find his stall plastered with cut out hearts and pictures of Jonny. The week after that, right before they leave for a stretch on the road, he comes in to find quite a few variously flavored “supplies” stuffed into both of their stalls. His face goes red. Name bond be damned, Patrick is going to seriously kill Sharpy.

                  He does stuff everything into his bag though. He likes anything Cherry flavored.

 


End file.
